


Lullaby for You

by overtture



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Platonic Relationships, others are mentioned but this mostly concerns the sbi quartet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27641516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtture/pseuds/overtture
Summary: The headstone was scuffed to high hell, the faintest hint of scorch marks that couldn't be entirely cleaned away. Some splashes of dye here and there, painted words smeared off. The grave itself was far into the heart of the badlands, but once one of them found it, word spread like wildfire. Everyone, at some point, had arrived for one reason or another. Everyone but him.Founder. Father. Visionary. Inspiration. Wilbur Soot.(Or, in which one month turns into two, turns into several after the revolution of Manberg, and the worried glances from his two sons combined with the ghosts that begin to hoard his peace of mind force Philza to finally visit his oldest's grave.)
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Phil Watson, No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	Lullaby for You

**Author's Note:**

> another fast hour and a half 4am oneshot thingy bc Feelings :'] again, im super tired bc i whipped this out on the spot so i'll come back and edit this in a couple hours after i get some sleep. i swear the next thing is gonna be both long AND a blue sonder au fic. it's a fun happy one too!! tommy centric and everything!! shhhh im not procrastinating it, i promise
> 
> enjoy!! <3

Wilbur Soot's grave is a mess.

Whoever has created the stone itself had hidden it far, far into the badlands. Still, once one of them found it, word spread like wildfire. Everyone, at some point, had arrived for one reason or another.

The topsoil is just a day or two fresh despite the age of the grave itself, a few months past. Dirt is upturned but settled by whoever had torn up what little grass had started growing inconsistently. The headstone was scuffed to high hell, the faintest hint of scorch marks that couldn't be entirely cleaned away. Some splashes of dye here and there.

Something unmistakable burns low in his chest at that. It agitates his migraine, worsened by his insomnia and overworked state. Nothing would give him peace of mind, not even Wilbur, and the man was dead and gone. "It's been a little bit, Wilbur. Figured I should visit at some point. Especially considering you dying was the last time we saw each other."

He imagines, for a moment, what kind of response he would have to that. Likely something snarky. His eyes read each letter carefully, bitterness swelling up.

He watches his breath fog, the crisp chill to the air that bites at his exposed skin, "You know, this mess just reminds me of the gossip. They call you my son, now. Remember when nobody wanted to even acknowledge it?"

It wasn’t something that bothered him too much, being Wilbur’s father. It got annoying, being the lesser popular of three successful children, but their success was more to him than anything else at the end of the day.

"You were famous and I was... Me. Gone off in my fantasies and lost worlds while you lived your life to the fullest. It was fine by me, the spotlight was always going to be yours. I knew that.

"It's... Funny now, I guess. They say, oh that’s _Philza's_ son, _Wilbur._ You're _my_ son now. I'm not _your_ dad, you're _my_ son. How ironic is that?" He laughs ruefully. "It only took your death."

Techno’s brother, Wilbur. Phil’s son, Wilbur. Tommy’s brother, Wilbur. Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur, his biggest claim was his biggest mistake. Might even be his biggest regret.

"But you know, it does have its downsides. It is gossip, right? They say, Phil's boy, the dreamer, the poet, the bard, he lost his mind, just like his father!" The death of his son, reduced to a fad. Gossip. A ghost story. "And then they wonder if Tommy or Techno is next. Like it's a fucking curse. Like you weren't _ill."_

He can see it now, the expressions he’s becoming so familiar with. Tommy’s paranoia haunting him like a ghost, his aches festering with relationships beaten and battered beyond belief as he worked to rebuild a nation of cinders and broken promises. Techno’s antsy fear, lurking protectively around Phil when he wasn’t keeping himself worked to the point of exhaustion, features drawn tight, gaunt as he ensures their comforts, their safety, a thousand plans, a thousand potions, a thousand sleepless nights with axes in hand as he paces empty fields.

"They don't deserve that. Techno has so much on his shoulders, now. Everyone's out to get him. And– you wouldn't believe it, the smallest nick, the smallest scratch, and he panics! He's so scared for me. I think he's scared for Tommy, too, but too proud to admit it. He's superstitious when pressured, you remember Wil? He thinks the government is haunted, which, I really can't blame him, but still!

"Wil... You were selfish. And so was I. We all were selfish people making selfish decisions. Still are. They keep telling me to forgive you, but... It's so hard. _So hard."_

Phil can’t rest. He can’t stop. If he stops, they’ll both fall apart. He’ll fall apart. Wilbur did this. He did this to them, and it hurts. 

"When I heard what you did, you'd have no fuckin' idea. I was so calm. I kind of knew, in a way. I knew you weren't okay, I knew it would spiral. I thought, _he's a man now._ A grown man. He can take care of himself. He'll reach out if he needs help. If he needs me."

Fundy struggles to get by, more time in the quarries than on the surface as he balances his needs with his wants. If he doesn’t quell Tommy’s temper, he’ll rile up Quackity, who’ll rile up Karl, who’ll all pressure Tubbo into decisions he doesn’t like, acts he doesn’t want to commit. 

"When I heard what you did, Wilbur, I wanted to— ugh, I'm getting furious just thinking about it. Stupid boy. Stupid boy! Stupid, horrible child, Wilbur! It's as much my fault as it is yours but by god, you were so far out of your depth I almost can't blame you!"

Wilbur’s brothers will kill each other before they swallow their pride and realize how similar they are. Wil was the same way, with just enough of a humble edge to keep himself reasonable to a degree. Tommy and Techno will take each other out.

Phil used to think _what would he do without Wilbur_ on the days Techno and Tommy would fight. He used to think, _blood will have to be spilled for them to see it, and they’ll regret it the rest of their lives._

"You were playing god with their lives, Wil, with people's livelihoods! You couldn't just win? Victory wasn't enough? Barely scraping from the jaws of death wasn't enough for you?" Phil snarls, taking a knee as his head swims and his balance tips. "You had to play? To—to fool around? Dangle your power in front of those who would oppose you? You got cocky, you idiot. And everyone, even your enemies paid the price."

Wilbur is dead. Tommy and Techno bicker and snap at each other's heels, Fundy was on the warpath right behind Quackity for Techno’s head, and Wilbur is dead.

"Why would you make your father _outlive_ you, huh? Why would you make me— you sunovabitch, you would argue with me about how it wasn't my responsibility, and Tommy and Techno would back you up, but if you ever, _ever in your life_ held an _ounce_ of care towards Fundy, you would understand. You should’ve _understood._ Why, why, _why-”_

For a moment, he drowns in his grief. A great flood of fury, guilt, hurt, longing, love, drowning his lungs and pouring from his eyes as he braces himself on the cold stone.

He couldn’t work up the courage to face Wilbur. What he’d done. What both of them had done. He killed his boy. He hurt his boy. And now there’s a dozen more he has to look out for, ones he has to try and pull through.

It’s so much. It’s too much. He doesn’t know how he’s gonna do it, considering the one he wanted to save the most died in his arms, a victim to a blade at his hand.

“Fundy calls me gramps, you know,” he chokes out between heaving, gasping sobs. “It’s so bizarre. I have a _grandkid._ You had a _son._ You had _brothers,_ you had _friends,_ you had _a family,_ you _bastard._ How’d you forget? How’d you lose that? I told you to hold on to it, didn’t I?”

And he’d given it back to him, in those final moments between them, as their weight swayed back and forth, a sword’s handle and guard between them. The dark of the unlit room. Breath mingling as the unhinged glint dissipated into clear, ocean clarity, pained and real, before the light began bleeding out of them too.

“I held your hand, Wilbur. I told you it was okay, that it was over. It was, for you, but god, I can’t do this. I can’t hold them all together. They always loved you more than me. You looked after them better than your old man. You were a good older brother, Wil. You were, even if the solution was more violent than it needed to be.”

Extending his pinkie towards the small boy at his side, smiling wide when chubby fingers wrapped it, a slow walk through dusk towards a warm home. 

“Your heart, it’s always been in the right place, or at least adjacent. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to guide it home. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I can’t be there for them like you’d be.”

Quilts and blankets handcrafted and handpicked, tucking in a young boy who yawns, eyelids fluttering despite his protests. 

“You know, I heard Fundy humming when preparing dinner and nearly cut myself open. I hadn’t thought you really remembered that old lullaby, never mind gave it lyrics. It’s his song, now, the new version doesn’t belong to you and I anymore, but...”

Cupping his hands in his larger ones, folding himself into the boy’s sheets to embrace him, his smaller form curled to press his ear to his chest as he hums a sweet lullaby, gentle fingers combing through his hair, patterns over his shoulders, even as he falls into a deeper and deeper sleep.

_“And my chest, though it ached, there was hope. A little beacon of light, though my sunniest days are now stolen away...”_

Holding the boy just a little closer, letting his warmth soothing his worries and fears into a contented calm, letting sleep finally claim him too.

“...I’ll keep them safe, Wil. I’ll do better. I’ll _be_ better. You won’t see anyone too soon, I’m afraid, but we’ll see you again eventually. Just hold on ‘til then, alright? I’ll... come to visit you again soon.”

Phil stands, shaking the snow from his clothes as he wipes his face, clears his throat, and stuffy nose. The words are the clearest thing on the headstone.

Founder. Father. Visionary. Inspiration.

Wilbur Soot. Son.


End file.
